Chapter 29: Tunnel Claiming
The tunnel air was thick with the smell of damp grass, sweat, and industrial disinfectant. The roar of the crowd was muffled here, reduced to a distant, pulsating hum that vibrated in the concrete floor. Aurora hovered near a utility closet, self-conscious in her oversized jersey, feeling like a trespasser in this world of polished athleticism.
Shadows moved at the far end. Figures in matching track suits emerged from the locker room, chatting, their voices echoing. Then he appeared.
Callum was still in his kit, his dark hair plastered with sweat, a clean line of grime tracing his jaw. He was laughing at something a teammate said, but his eyes scanned the tunnel, green and sharp. They found her. The easy smile vanished, replaced by something darker, more intent. He said a quick word to the other player, who clapped his shoulder and moved on, throwing a curious glance her way.
Then he was striding toward her, his cleats clicking a rapid, deliberate rhythm on the concrete. There was no hesitation. The force of him was a wave. He didn’t stop until her back hit the cold, unforgiving wall, the breath leaving her lungs in a surprised gasp.
His mouth was on hers before she could speak. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a claiming. His lips were hard, urgent, tasting of salt and energy drinks. One hand cradled the back of her head, fingers tangling in her messy bun, protecting her skull from the wall. The other pressed flat against the concrete beside her, his arm a cage.
He broke the kiss, just enough to breathe the same air. His eyes blazed down at her. “Those stats,” he growled, his voice rough from yelling on the pitch. “That cold, perfect fucking analysis you spit into that microphone.” He leaned in, his lips grazing her ear. “I got hard listening to it. I came in my shorts, Aurora. Right there on the field.”
A shudder, hot and liquid, tore through her. Her glasses were askew. She tried to speak, but his mouth was on her neck now, sucking at the pulse point there, his teeth scraping her skin.
“I—the publisher—” she managed, the words fragmented.
He pulled back, his grip on her hair tightening just enough to tilt her face up to the harsh fluorescent light. “What?”
“HarperCollins,” she breathed, the name sounding surreal in this dank, masculine space. “They messaged. About the book. They know.”
Callum stared at her. For a second, pure, unfiltered shock stripped the intensity from his face. Then it came roaring back, hotter, wilder. He bit her lower lip, a sharp, possessive sting that made her cry out. The coppery taste of blood bloomed on her tongue.
“Tell me again,” he commanded, his hand leaving the wall to fist in the front of her jersey. He yanked the fabric up, exposing her stomach, the lace of her bra. The cold tunnel air hit her skin. “Tell me about your book while I fuck you against this wall. I want to hear it when you’re coming on my cock.”
His crudeness was a match thrown on the kindling of her own need. The anxiety, the exposure, the terrifying thrill of the publisher’s text—it all fused into a single, desperate ache between her legs. She arched against him, a silent answer.
He didn’t wait. His hand shoved between them, fumbling with the button of his shorts, then the zip. She heard the heavy slide of the fabric, the rustle of his briefs. He was already fully hard, the length of him springing hot and heavy into his own palm. He pushed her leggings and panties down just past her hips, the elastic catching on the curve of her ass.
There was no gentleness, no preamble. He hooked one of her legs around his waist, his arm under her thigh, hoisting her up. The cold, rough concrete scraped against her bare back. He guided himself to her, the broad head of his cock pressing against her wetness.
He pushed inside.
The stretch was immediate, a breathtaking fullness that tore a ragged moan from her throat. He was still buzzing with the adrenaline of the game, every muscle coiled and tense. He didn’t move at first, just held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath coming in harsh gusts.
“Say it,” he demanded, his voice a raw scrape.
“HarperCollins… wants my novel,” she gasped, the words breaking as he began to move. Not a rhythm, but a series of deep, punishing drives that slammed her back into the wall with each thrust. “The one… about… the footballer.”
“Fuck,” he groaned, the word punched out of him. He pistoned into her, each stroke hitting a spot that sent sparks shooting behind her eyes. The sound was obscene—skin slapping against skin, her soft cries, his guttural grunts, all echoing in the empty tunnel. “What else?”
Her thoughts were scattering. She clutched at his shoulders, the damp fabric of his jersey slick under her fingers. “They said… the internet… is interested.”
He let out a harsh laugh against her throat. “The internet’s interested in this,” he panted, his hips snapping harder, faster. “In me fucking my brilliant, secret-keeping neighbor in a fucking stadium tunnel.”
The vulgarity, the sheer raw exposure of it, pushed her higher. She could see the neon team sign flickering over his shoulder, could hear the distant rumble of the departing fans. Anyone could walk in. A staff member. A player. The thought didn’t scare her; it ignited her.
“Callum,” she chanted, his name a plea and a prayer.
“Tell me the stats,” he gritted out, his movements becoming erratic, brutal. “The ones you quoted.”
“Ninety-two percent… pass completion,” she moaned, her head thrown back against the concrete. “Fourteen… big chances…”
“Christ,” he snarled. He was losing control, his thrusts turning frantic, deep, perfect. She felt the coil inside her snap.
Her orgasm ripped through her with a violence that matched his. It was a silent, breathless convulsion, her body clamping around him, milking him, her mouth open in a soundless scream. The world dissolved into white static.
He followed with a shuddering groan, his hips stuttering as he drove into her one last, deep time. She felt the hot, pulsing release of him inside her, a possessive claim that made her shudder anew. He collapsed against her, his weight pinning her to the wall, his sweat-slick cheek pressed to hers. They stayed like that for long minutes, gasping, joined, in the flickering, indifferent light.
Slowly, the world seeped back in. The chill of the concrete on her back. The dull ache between her legs. The heavy, sated weight of him.
He softened, slipped from her. Gently, he lowered her leg, his hands trembling slightly as he pulled her leggings back up over her hips. He tucked himself away, zipped his shorts. He reached up and straightened her glasses, his fingers surprisingly tender on her face.
Then his phone buzzed in his pocket, shattering the silence. He ignored it, his eyes searching hers. The ferocity was gone, replaced by a weary, vulnerable intensity.
“Say it again,” he whispered, his thumb brushing the small bite on her lip. “About the book.”
Aurora took a shaky breath. Her body felt used, wrecked, glorious. “A publisher wants it,” she said, her voice hoarse.
A slow smile, different from the cocky grin he showed the cameras, spread across his face. It was real, relieved, proud. “Of course they do.” He leaned in, brushing his lips over hers, a ghost of the previous violence. “We should get you home, novelist. You’ve got a lot of work to do.”
He took her hand, his grip firm, and led her down the tunnel towards the players’ exit, where a world of new complications waited. But for now, all she felt was the warm, solid certainty of his hand in hers, and the lingering, tender ache where he had been.